


Cherry Blossom Child

by Shachaai



Series: The House of Falling Flowers [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Magic, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-26 01:31:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20035660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Mages Arthur and Marianne welcome and protect their first child.





	Cherry Blossom Child

**Author's Note:**

> Set much earlier in the same universe as _Primroses and Pain_.

When Matthew is born he is his mother’s joy, and the compass of his father’s heart. Children are a rarity for mages, especially powerful mages, virility and fertility dwindling in exchange for long life, slow and graceful aging, and nearly impeccable health. The son born to Marianne and Arthur, therefore, is a _ gift – _ a gift from God, Marianne declares, a gift to his parents and the world, and they name him _ Matthew _for it.

The nursery they make together for him in their London townhouse is a room for a prince – perhaps even for a prince of _ angels. _Marianne brings the airy sky down and places it within four walls one can never see when they stand within them, one’s steps gauzy and light amidst clouds that drift between the hopeful light of dawn, the dreamy softness of evening slumber, and the endless gold-tinged blue of a perfect summer’s day. Arthur writes and wraps the wonder in his own magic, makes the nursery an impenetrable puzzlebox, green and glittering, a little haven for Arthur’s little family that he brings gifts into, brilliant toys of gold and brass and shining steel that spin and dance and sing and keep Matthew entranced when he is still too young to sit up alone, small hands reaching up in fascination for the magic twirling before him.

Their families, friends and acquaintances send congratulations on the safe delivery of their first child, a stack of letters written on creamy paper and polite little cards. Arthur sits in the desk at his study and passes the correspondence through a black candle-flame that does not truly burn – Marianne folds her arms, leans in the doorway and teasingly calls him a cynic for it, but her smile fades to thin lips when two of the cards flare a deep purple when they touch the flame. She holds out her hand, wordlessly, for those two with their names scrawled along the bottom, and disappears out of the study door, out of their pretty white house, with her dress and hair very prettily-done and her red smile so very, very pretty that it hurts.

Arthur kisses their precious son goodnight alone for three nights in Matthew’s room full of clouds, and gathers his wife in his arms when she returns well past their little boy’s bedtime, her hair tumbling down from its pins around his fingers as she digs her nails through his waistcoat and shirt, demands from him at once all the kisses she has missed.

(They never again hear from the owners of those two names Marianne had left with. No-one does.)

Late, a far-flung friend sends them a small white cherry blossom tree in the post, along with a kind, if circumspect, letter apologising for the delay in sending his regards. His wardwork, it seems, still chooses to find itself _ disagreeable _ when transmuting anything made of paper or wood, so the _ standard _ ways, for this, for now, will simply have to do. _ A child born to two mages in accord is a blessed child indeed. _

Marianne finds the tree delightful, bringing Matthew from his crib to see the young branches as Arthur reads the letter aloud. They are alone in the house that day – their human servants have the day off, and all their masters are left with are their silent simulacra – and Marianne’s hair is down, her smile indulgent as Matthew reaches up to curiously tug at a curl dangling near his face.

_ It is _ we _ who are blessed, _ she says, and comes to the armchair where Arthur is sitting so she may perch on the arm, tilting the child in her arms so Arthur is encouraged to look up. _ Is he not perfect? _

Arthur lowers his letters, and obliges. He has made no magic as spectacular as the little boy in Marianne’s arms, and never will be able to. Every inch of Matthew is perfect – but Marianne has already been quite insufferable about her own great hand in his creation, and there is ever too much of a pragmatist in Arthur to voice too much sentiment aloud. _ I have heard many doting mothers say the same thing about their firstborn, _he says instead, and grins at the heavy sigh his wife gives above his head.

She lowers Matthew further, so the baby can properly see his father. _ Tell your son he’s perfect, Arthur. _

Arthur makes faces at Matthew until Matthew coos at him instead, and lets his grin go all crooked to Marianne’s second sigh, the weight of his child suddenly deposited safe in his arms, soft and warm and tiny. Arthur pokes his son to hear his little _ oomf, _and smiles when both Matthew’s hands wrap themselves rather petulantly around his finger.

Still perched on the arm of the chair, Marianne leans against Arthur’s side, resting her hands across his shoulders to support herself, thoughtfully propping her chin upon his crown. _ Perfect, _ she decides again after a long pause, like the biblical voice from the clouds. And then: _ I thank God every day he took after _ my _ family for his looks – I don’t think his face could ever be big enough to handle your family’s eyebrows. _

Arthur’s smile freezes. _ You, _ he says, _ are very lucky I am busy holding Matthew. _

_ Luck has nothing to do with it, _says Marianne, and laughs as she kisses his temple.

They plant the cherry blossom in the townhouse’s garden - around the back, so Matthew can see it from the night nursery’s window when he is held up to admire the view. It, perhaps, might have been better for the tree to plant it on their lands out in the country - but both Arthur and Marianne are so frequently in the capital on business or for the Season, their son with them, and they both agree that the little tree should be kept by Matthew. Its wood is fresh with protective magic and its hopeful branches seem to catch all the peace that can be found in their little corner of London - good blessings for their boy, who will grow as the tree grows.

Marianne sends their faraway friend a sincere and effusive letter of thanks for his kind gift, carefully dipping Matthew’s small hand in a shallow dish of ink and pressing it to the bottom of the paper beside her own signature. Despite all their servants and simulacra, she occupies Arthur by making Arthur dig the hole in the garden to further bless and plant the tree. As she wipes Matthew clean again, Marianne can hear him cursing the tree, the ground, his spade and the world in general. There is no magic placed behind any of it of course, but the words grow heated enough Marianne feels obliged, after placing Matthew in his crib, to go outside and watch her husband’s disaster, Arthur wild as a dervish as he kicks at an uncooperative piece of sod, flushed in the face and with sweat trickling down his throat.

It might be more attractive were he not so irate. (Is the cherry blossom’s peace all for Matthew?)

_ Darling, please don’t wither the tree before its first blossoming. _

_ The _ tree, Arthur snaps back at her, sitting down in the grass and no doubt doing terrible things to his fine trousers, _ is fine. _

Arthur, on the other hand…

Marianne goes to her husband, settling down in the grass beside him in her skirts and waiting patiently. Arthur needs time to organise his thoughts and get over his own temper, but, eventually, he always obliges her.

And so, Arthur obliges her, not looking at Marianne but the cherry blossom tree still waiting to go into the soil. _ Our son is a target because of us. _

Marianne considers this. It does not take long. _ Yes, _ she concedes. She and Arthur had been targeted individuals long before they had become a targeted couple, and there are many who wish to hurt them, any way they can. _ But he is also now one of the most safely-guarded little boys in the world. One of us, alone, can scare off any danger. Combined… the world simply cannot keep up. _

Arthur hums, an odd little note he turns over in his throat as he rifles through things in his mind. _ You know I will devastate anyone who tries to hurt my family. _

In sickness and in health -

Marianne smiles, pleased, and pats the nearest part of her husband’s hand that doesn’t have any mud or grass stains on it. _ Oh, mon chou… Not if I get there first. _


End file.
